Transit

SIXTEEN

It was one morning when Tom and Avery were theoretically on a hunting expedition inland—though, in fact, Camp Two was already well supplied with meat—that Tom raised a problem that had evidently been troubling him for some time. They were sitting on a fallen tree, taking a breather; and Avery was idly cutting a design on the haft of his favourite tomahawk.

‘I hope, old man, that we know each other well enough by now for you not to take offence at anything I say,’ began Tom.

Avery looked at him curiously. These days, Tom never said ‘old man’ unless he was particularly nervous.

‘We also know each other well enough not to beat about the bush,’ remarked Avery. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Impotence,’ said Tom quickly.

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘I said impotence…. With Mary.’

‘Oh, sorry. It didn’t register for a moment.’ Avery was thinking: Here, ladies and gentlemen we have the Garden of Eden—only neuroses are more plentiful than apples.

Tom was baffled by the ensuing silence. He had expected something more than a non-committal response.

‘A further relevant matter,’ he went on desperately, ‘is whether you and Barbara have made love…. At least, I ' think it’s relevant.’

‘Possibly. But I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you. We haven’t…. Well, not in that sense.’

‘Why not?’ Tom was surprised. ‘Don’t you like her enough?’

‘I like her a great deal,’ snapped Avery. ‘Maybe that’s part of the reason You aren’t the only nut case, you know.’

‘You haven’t made love to her?’ echoed Tom stupidly. The knowledge seemed to shatter foundations on which he was trying to build.

‘I haven’t made love to her,’ explained Avery, ‘not because I can’t, not because I don’t want to, but because I’ve got a damn silly problem of loyalties. There was a girl called Christine, and she died a long time ago—but I got into the peculiar habit of not letting her die, if you see what I mean.’

‘You’ll have to get over it some time,’ Tom pointed out. ‘Otherwise you’ll both go dotty…. Anyway, what do you do about the dear old demon sex?’

‘I kiss Barbara good night,’ said Avery angrily, ‘and go to sleep thinking about Christine—and if I’m lucky, I wake up in the morning with the problem solved until next time…. Does that answer your question?’

Tom shrugged. ‘Poor Barbara.’

‘Poor Barbara, indeed.’ Then he added brutally: ‘But impotence was the original topic, I believe. Your impotence.’

‘Let’s forget the whole matter, old man,’ said Tom distantly. ‘I didn’t know it was going to upset you.’

Suddenly, the tension drained out of Avery. He knew that he was being unreasonable and bloody-minded. He wanted to make amends.

‘Sorry, Tom. Fat lot of help I am…. Any idea what causes the impotence, or is it all a damned annoying mystery?’

‘I think it’s tenderness,’ said Tom with an almost comic expression. ‘Tenderness—and a history of pornography.’ It was the first reference he had made to his private collection for a long, long time.

Avery put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ll have to elaborate further, my old one. I’m in a complete fog.’

Tom took a deep breath. ‘The trouble is, I think I’m in love with Mary.’

‘Congratulations. No problem, then.’

‘Don’t be a bloody dunce,’ exploded Tom. ‘That is the problem. For donkey’s years, love and sex have been in separate compartments. You see what I mean? Sex was sordid. Love was something you only read about. Sex was just bosomy bitches—preferably in two dimensions, where they couldn’t do you a mischief—and love, well, I never really believed in it, I suppose….’ He swallowed, and the sweat dripped off his forehead. The confession was costing him something. ‘The trouble is, I have tenderness for Mary, I respect her—so how the hell can I do something like that to her…. I suppose it’s a sort of conditioning,’ he wound up lamely. ‘Pavlov’s dog, and all that.’

Avery’s heart went out to Tom. He was pitting himself against the habits of half a lifetime.

‘There’s one other small point,’ said Avery gently. ‘How do you think Mary really feels about you?’

‘Affectionate,’ babbled Tom. ‘Most affectionate. I think the poor misguided girl really likes me. Hell, maybe she even loves me She gives me so much.’

At this point, Avery was beginning to feel like an old, old man.

‘This is a case of the blind attempting to lead the helpless,’ he said at length. ‘But here goes There are lots of feminine roles, Tom—child, virgin, harlot, sister, wife, mother. My guess is that women—most women—want to be a bit of everything. I think Mary does. Your trouble is that you think you ought only to cherish her…. God dammit, she must know by now that you cherish her. What she wants next is for you to use her.’

‘But how?’ asked Tom helplessly.

‘Use her body, man. Forget she has a soul. Treat her like a paid prostitute.’

Tom’s eyes widened. ‘I—I couldn’t do it.’

Avery smiled. ‘There’s a remedy for that—four shots of Barbara’s whisky. Strictly medicinal. Three shots for you and one for Mary.’

‘But ’

‘But me no buts Tonight, I’m going to take Barbara for a long walk on the beach. When we come back, we’ll take first watch. With a bit luck and some thoughtful help, Nature will take care of the rest.’

‘I couldn’t do it,’ said Tom. ‘Not to Mary.’

‘Man, you bloody well will do it,’ snapped Avery. ‘Otherwise, I shall have a heart-to-heart talk with Mary myself, and tell her all about your piddling little inhibitions.’

‘Steady on, old man,’ said Tom hotly. ‘We’re in danger of getting just a shade personal.’

Avery began to laugh. ‘May I quote you,’ he gloated. ‘It’s the saying of the week.’

Without a word, and muttering as much dignity as possible, Tom stood up and began to walk away. Neither of them spoke all the way back to camp. Lunch was a very strained meal indeed. The two women, looking at them, suspected a major quarrel.

That evening, however, as he had said, Avery took Barbara along the beach. The evening was so warm that tfyey decided on a moonlight swim—still a novelty, when there were two moons to provide the light.

By the time they got back to the rock, Tom and Mary had retired. Barbara was surprised, because Avery had said nothing to her about the plot. In fact, he had said very little at all; and though she had tried to draw him on the assumed difference with Tom, his answers had been infuriatingly evasive.

Avery spotted two empty tumblers by the camp fire. He sniffed them with satisfaction.

‘If you’d like to turn in, I’ll take the first watch,’ he said to Barbara.

She was suspicious. ‘Something’s going on. What the hell is it?’

‘Nothing at all, my sweet. I’ll take the first watch. You get some sleep.’

‘Whatever we do, we do together,’ she said, firmly. ‘Something is happening. I want to know what.’

‘You’ll probably find out in the fullness of time…. Well, let’s go to bed anyway. Precautions can go to blazes for one night. The devil will look after his own.’

Yawning, but still mystified, Barbara raised no objection. It had been a long time since there had been any contact with the golden people. Presently, she and Avery went into their tent.

In the morning, a single glance at Mary was sufficient to tell both Barbara and Avery that something had indeed happened. She looked not conventionally radiant, as women are supposed to look on such occasions, but a little surprised, a little tired and vaguely smug.

Tom looked perplexed and obscurely proud.

Barbara, with her woman’s intuition, soon discovered what it was all about; and Avery already knew.

As he surreptitiously inspected them both with—as he thought—a somewhat clinical detachment, he felt a sudden shaft of envy, and guilt.

He was conscious of a great and complicated irony. He looked at Barbara, and saw that she, too, was envious. Suddenly, he wanted to hold her in his arms. But he didn’t. He pretended to notice nothing at all.

‘Physician,’ he murmured softly, ‘physician, heal thyself.’